At Your Service
by encyclopedia britannica
Summary: Taking a trip down the proverbial rabbit hole to the company of dwarves, wizards, and hobbits was never apart of Lucy Hale's life plan. And yet, there she was. Kili/OC.
1. PROLOGUE

The series of events leading up to the most important footstep I would ever take seems like a blur. Almost a million miles away. Hazy. As if everything and everyone in the life from which I fell happened to somebody else entirely, while I sat and watched on like one would their favorite film. Alas, I can say for certain that I am no spectator and this has been no Hollywood adaptation. The very idea couldn't be further from the truth.

Indeed, I _know _for a fact that I was born on September 26th, 1988 to my parents, Nicolas and Jane Hale, and got my namesake from a little show called "I Love Lucy."

I _know_ that my mother died in a car accident shortly after my sixth birthday while coming home from work one night in a torrential downpour.

I _know_ that in the summer of 1999, while vacationing in Florida, I was bit by a lemon shark as I swam in the shallows of the Gulf.

And I _know _my first kiss was Ben Turner, who took it upon himself to declare his love for me in the middle of an empty classroom, while we attempted to disassemble our eighth grade science fair projects.

I know these things because I can still _feel_ them within me. The same way in which I feel this place. In my bones. To my core.

I _know _that it is no illusion. No dream. No story in a book. No lie.

The Shire. Bilbo. The dwarves.

The cuts. Scrapes. Bruises.

Love. Heartache. Fear.

Improbable or not, each has been as real as the next, and just as genuine as anything else I have ever experienced back from where I started. Quite honestly, I don't know how it happened or why, but that it began in the darkness of a cellar in the home of one Eloise Hobbs.

And that nothing would ever be the same again.


	2. ONE

I'm not sure how I thought things were going to turn out, to be honest. Eloise was no spring chicken and I know that this day has been on it's way for sometime now. Her illness had become far more aggressive over the course of the last few months, and death was, no doubt, the next inevitable, unfortunate step. It was a reality that she had knowingly made her peace with, while I assured her she could continue to stick things out.

"Oh sweet girl," she'd say with a smile. Calmly. Rationally. With poise. "You can't expect me to hang around here forever."

But I do. And to see the team of paramedics roll her out her front door on a stretcher, starch white blanket over her body, brings me to tears more than I thought it would. They become all but uncontrollable as nearby neighbors make their way to the scene, eager to investigate.

Eloise Hobbs is - was - the epitome of class. An absolutely wonderful woman, and a saint if there ever was such a thing. Quirky, yes. But she was a giver with, undoubtedly, the biggest heart of anyone I've ever met. She knew no other way, I think, so many times leaving me and others taken aback with her love and generosity.

Homeless man on corner outside her favorite diner? "Don't just sit there, Lucy, invite him to join us."

Stray dog wandering through the backyard? "Bring him inside, Lucy. It's supposed to be chilly tonight."

Repairman stops by to fix the leaky bathroom sink? "Put on a pot of tea, would you, Lucy? It's the very least we can do."

It makes me feel the absence all the more when I'm finally alone, her home silent and missing it's most critical component.

My association with Eloise started out as a business proposition, and a simple enough one at that. Being a full time college student with a grueling internship at Penn Museum has hardly given me much time for a social life, let alone a job, but her ad in the local Philadelphia Inquirer which I came across last winter was too good to ignore, albeit in the midst of finals week. Even with my hectic schedule and mountains of textbooks to pour over daily, a few short hours, Monday through Friday, has been a doable affair. Dare I say, a highlight for me. The amount of pay she insisted I accept, on top of the frequent "raise" she would give for no reason other than I believe it pleased her to see me flustered, didn't hurt either, but the woman turned into a figure in my life that I've desperately needed.

From doing the grocery shopping, paying the bills, and indulging in the occasional card game, I've been handling whatever odd job was required in the four bedroom, two bath Colonial home. Situated in Washington Square, within a reasonable walking distance from my apartment, it remains pretty as a picture and preserved as a historical reminder of what the area used to be in it's earlier days, and from what I've heard, has been in Eloise's care for the last forty plus years. As such, I was welcomed with open arms on two very explicit conditions: eat whatever I want, and more importantly, never go into the cellar.

I haven't thought much of it since my arrival, merely a lady who valued her privacy, but as I hold her final words to me on the flowered stationary from the pad next to the kitchen phone, I begin to wonder.

I read over her looping handwriting for a second time, standing under the dull light from the living room floor lamp, my insides turning with anxiety.

_Dearest Lucy,_

_I cannot thank you enough for everything you've done for me the past year and a half. Your presence has been a joyous constant in my life, and for this, I am sad to go. But, if this letter is in your hands, it is of no consequence any longer. My time has already come and gone._

_It's a tricky thing when you think about it, though, time. Most think they have so much more than they actually do, failing to see it ticking away right under their nose. Thankfully, I've been one of the lucky ones._

_I have truly lived a full life, darling. You really have no idea. I've been to places and done things with people you wouldn't believe if I told you. Things I still have a difficult time wrapping my head around. I can only hope that you will be able to do the same. If anything, your ambition and good nature gives me such hope, but there's something I need to share with you before I go to give you your best shot. Something that you need to see, rather._

_It's about the cellar._

_I need you to take the key in the underside of my jewelry box and go inside, but before you do so, listen closely._

_First and foremost, bring nothing with you but the key. It's best you carry only the clothes on your back rather than arouse suspicion._

_Don't waste a moment on worrying about how long you're gone. Once you arrive back, whether a day, a week, or year otherwise, things will have only progressed seven minutes. No more, no less. Exactly seven minutes._

_Whenever you'd like to return, all you need do is hold the key firmly in your hand in the very place you entered from and let yourself fall forwards, but think carefully before you make your choice. You must know that all things will be reset. The events you've experienced, the people ... each and every one of them, they're back to a fresh start. Back to the very beginning._

_I don't know where you'll go, sweetheart, as that part is for you and only you to decide, but there is a world of possibilities at your feet, and I wish you only the best. _

_Goodness, I know this must sound like the mad ramblings of an old woman, but please, do me this last favor. And if anything I've ever said sticks with you, let it be to always show more kindness than is necessary and listen to your heart._

_With all my love,  
Eloise_

My heart hammered in my chest.

None of it made any sense, yet, there was thing I knew for certain: curiosity has never failed to get the better of me.

* * *

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	3. TWO

I chalk it up to the Libra in me, as I take the stairs two at a time, wooden floorboards creaking underneath my boots. Naturally inquisitive. Easily influenced._ Gullible. _These factors will be my downfall someday, I swear it, but the fact remains that Eloise was never the type to so blatantly lie, especially to the ones she cared for. Nor did she have a reason to. The situation puzzles me far more than I am comfortable with, but I'm too interested to let it go and too upset to turn my attention elsewhere.

The letter is still in my hands as I cautiously approach the master bedroom, its words not ceasing to buzz about my head.

_There's something I need to share with you before I go to give you your best shot. Something that you need to see, rather.  
_  
It unsettles me the more I think on it, wondering what it is I'm suppose to find, and why in the world Eloise was continuing to hide it in her death. I even halfheartedly hope her to be there waiting for me when I open the door, ready and willing to give me all the answers, almost as though the events of the day were a some sort of bizarre test or safety drill. Sadly, the only thing I'm met with when I enter is a breeze blowing lightly from the wobbling ceiling fan above me and a glimpse of myself in her full-length mirror.

I've been in Eloise's room about as often as I've been in my own. A cozy space with a sleigh bed covered in pillows and walls painted gorgeous hues of yellow and green, it's recently where she spent a majority of her time, too tired and worn to be active, and when my tasks for the evening were finished, where I'd join her for a warm cup of tea over discussions of television, current news, and life in general. This time, however, I need to stop for a moment and collect myself. Strange note aside, coming face to face with her possessions, from personal paintings to large shelves of books accumulated over the years, it feels far more frightening and intimate now that I know the owner is never coming back. My heart quakes to think of her treasures ending up in the hands of a stranger, or worse, the dusty shelf of an old auction house or dilapidated thrift store. Forgotten. I forcefully swallow down the start of a sob, making haste to procure the item in question, and abandoning thoughts on if she has a will that's going to be executed in the upcoming days.

The jewelry box Eloise wrote of is staring at me from the vanity in the corner, strategically set facing the window with an ideal view onto Spruce Street. The ambulance and police officers have long since gone, but through the sunflower colored curtains, I notice a small group of onlookers still conversing on the corner, making casual gestures in the direction of the house. Much to my dismay, this includes one horrible beast of a woman, Dorothy Webb, who has lived two doors down for the last twenty years with a small army of angry Shih Tzus, as well as Charles Lawson from number 624 who often takes to shouting at the garbage men every Thursday morning, insisting he will have them reprimanded for their truck's complete and utter disregard of the city's noise ordinance. I feel my stomach turn in disgust and try to ignore them and the others, carefully wedging my fingers into the bottom panel of the antique as my instructions had suggested. When I pop the part out of place, sure enough, there is a key hidden inside. What I'm not expecting is the photograph.

Black and white, with the Eiffel Tower standing lofty and proud in the background, a younger Eloise and an handsome unknown gentleman are embraced, both wearing broad grins_. _A brief moment of relief hits me.

_She looks so happy._

Eloise's letter plainly stated that she enjoyed the time she had in more ways than I was privy to, but the picture in my hand solidifies it for me. This is how I want to remember her, I decide. I smile to myself, absentmindedly flipping the picture over for details, and lose it as quickly as it came. The hair on the back of my neck stands up.

_Eloise and Léon, July 16th 1940_

I check the page she had written to me for comparison, yet I need no confirmation. I already know it's Eloise's script, there is no doubt about it. Both samples have the same curvy 'E' and pronounced slant on the 'L' that I've been so accustomed to seeing, but it is the date that gives me pause.

_How is that possible?_

Eloise looks at least thirty here, perhaps her late twenties. _But 1940? _That was still two years before she was born. And Léon? The name sounds so familiar. I stare, searching for a good minute for any insight the photo can provide me, until a conversation we had months previously pops into my head after I boldly brought up the topic of romance and why she hadn't been married or had children.

"There was a man. Once," she had vaguely sighed over our bowls of homemade beef stew and butter bread, as I recall. "My dear Léon. But unforeseen circumstances, you know."

It was all I ever got out of Eloise on the subject.

I figure this has to be him, although I still don't understand. I tell myself that maybe it's a mistake. That the date is wrong, or that they're different people all together, but the grandfather clock interrupts me, loudly chiming eight from the living room, and causes me to jump out of my own skin. I quickly make my exit, leaving the photograph where it had been stashed, and everything else just as Eloise had it before she died, wondering to myself how it is that I walk out with more questions than I had when I came in.

I make my way back downstairs, passing the gray house cat, Alfie, in the hallway to stand in front of the cellar door, several meows echoing from around the corner. Looking at the entrance with skepticism, I pluck up my courage and tell myself to do it without a second thought.

_Just a peek won't hurt._

_For her.  
_  
I hear a distinct car horn honk nearby, from what I can only assume is evening traffic on 8th Street, and catch a quick glance at the clock on the stove before I put the key into the lock and go forward. 8:02. Inside, I can see nothing but a half a set of steps, while my hand searches for a light switch, but comes up short. The stairs groan as I descend them, and I am acutely aware of how heavy my feet feel and the chill of cold air rising from below. I'm four steps in, putting the key into the safety of my jean pocket, when it hits me.

I'm falling. But not to the ground. Through thin air. Like a feather.

My insides twist in different directions, making me woozy in an instant, like the mistake of having lunch at an amusement park before tackling the ever anticipated roller coaster. I want to throw up, to yell for help, but my entire body seems to have lost the ability to do so.

I land with a thud, not a moment too soon, and proceed to knock over everything in the vivacity in my panic and disorientation. Out of the corner of my eye, I see apples roll to the ground, what I think are blocks of cheese starting to fall off shelves, while a bowl of tomatoes land on the floor with a splat, and various pots, pans, and jars of herbs and spices clatter around me. When everything settles, I truly start to crumble to pieces.

_Oh my God._

This isn't the cellar.

Somewhere, I find my voice and scream, staying cowered and dumbfounded next to a barrel before an unknown voice in the doorway stops me.

"Ex-excuse me! Excuse me! What are you doing in _my pantry_?!" He looks as confused as I feel, eyes wide and unable to leave me and the mess I've produced.

At least, I think it's a he.

"What are you?!" I yell hysterically, unable to stop the outburst. "What's wrong with your feet?!"

"Wh-what am I? What are you? And why are you in my home, uninvited, no less!"

I struggle to find my bearings, trying remember Eloise's words, as the stranger and I dance around each other in the wake of my destruction, both as unsure of what was happening as the other.

_All you need do is hold the key firmly in your hand in the very place you entered from and let yourself fall forwards._

It sounded so easy, but I try several times to no avail, hitting the floor in front of me and bruising my knees in the process. It irritates the thing in front of me. He backs up, grabbing a small broom from the corner, using it like a shield.

"What are you _doing_? Stop that! That's my mother's rug!"

I catch one last glimpse of my surroundings before I realize that I've hit the correct spot and vanish entirely out of sight. I'm more prepared for the gut wrenching sensation this time around, and could cry in relief when I finally hit the cellar steps where I started, clamoring on all fours to make it out.

I slam the door shut behind me, and sit hyperventilating on the ground with my back pressed up as far as I can get against the kitchen counter. The digits on the microwave above me shine brightly to my horror. Mockingly. I bring my legs to my chest for support.

8:09.

Seven minutes.

* * *

**Wow! I am ridiculously overwhelmed with happiness from the response this has gotten so early on. Many thanks to each and every one of you for reading, reviewing, following, and favoriting! You have my utmost love and gratitude!  
**


	4. THREE

Regaining the feeling in my legs and finally able to catch my breath, I'm up and pacing throughout the kitchen, keeping an ever watchful eye on the cellar door, and wondering if the hairy little creature I've just left behind is capable of following me back. It's only but a moment before I slip and nearly fall back to the floor, it's tile visibly slick with what I discover is the gooey remnants of tomato still clinging to the bottom of my footwear from my journey. I laugh in what I can only explain as the strangest mix of fascination, terror, and excitement as I roll several of the slimy seeds between my fingers, astonished.

There's no gas leak, the creep giving me googly bedroom eyes behind the counter at Starbuck's this morning didn't spike my frappuccino, and I wasn't losing my mind. This was happening. It was real. Absolutely insane, unexplainable, and legitimately real.

And the evidence was on me.

I wipe my hands clean onto my pant legs before pulling out a small pineapple shaped mug from the whitewashed cabinet next to the dishwasher and pouring myself a cold glass of water from the refrigerator's dispenser to calm my nerves. Staring vacantly at the eclectically decorated doors, adorned with a variety of magnets, pictures, post-it notes, and comics clipped from the funny pages, my brain runs on overdrive.

_Just how long had Eloise known about this?  
_

_And how the hell did she manage to keep it under wraps?!  
_

_Good lord, it was sitting there the entire time. _

_Over a year!  
_

_Every snack I grabbed, every cup of tea. Every damn trip to the kitchen.  
_

_Right in front of my face._

I sigh, leaving the drink behind on the counter, it doing nothing to quench the dry feeling in my mouth, and rush into the living room to grab my cellphone out of my purse. Still sitting in a heap on the lumpy sofa cushions where I had idly tossed it on my way in hours earlier, my overweight backpack laying underneath it, untouched and bulging with homework for my Intermediate Latin class due bright and early at eight o'clock tomorrow. For once in my life, I could hardly care less.

I turn off the television glowing in the corner as channel three's Louis Legara reports on a recent break-in about six blocks away at Affordable Pawn, and focus on scrolling through my list of contacts, silently finding myself more irritated that Eloise didn't bother to expand the letter she had left, leaving the why's, how's and what if's unanswered. And likely so forever. As such, I'm fully aware this is something I won't be able to handle on my own, and there's only one person I can think of who would give me the time of day were I to sincerely utter the words, 'I think I just went through a wormhole.'

_Max._

I attempt to formulate a text message to send my best friend since fourth grade that doesn't make me sound like a complete lunatic, and ultimately, settle for something to the point, yet unassuming: _911 - L_

I decide it's best to let him come over and check it out the cellar for himself, and as I expect, it doesn't take long for his response.

_Meeting with Cooper in a sec. He's either chucking me or giving me the promotion. Will call later. You aren't being murdered, are you? - M  
_

I huff and toss my phone back on top of my pile of belongings, aggravated, and don't even bother to type a response.

I adore Max. He's been my rock forever, and I don't know what I would do without him. Nevertheless, he was also the man who would be late to his own funeral, and I can barely sit still, let alone have four hours to wait until he's done with his shift at the restaurant, though it looks like I don't have much of a choice.

I make my way to the front door and have my fingers on the handle, ready to give myself a few minutes of fresh air until I can get a second opinion on the whole ordeal, when it dawns on me without warning.

With Eloise gone, her house - the cellar - will likely be next, no doubt heading back onto the market and up for grabs once the lawyers see she hasn't any extended family to speak of. And in a prime location like Washington Square? It wouldn't be for long. I already know from several visits that a squat, burly looking contractor from Smith & Jacobs, a prominent local developing company, has been trying to negotiate for the properties on Eloise's street for the last few months, as well as the one behind it, to pave way for some 'gaudy monstrosity' as Eloise had put it. And from what I understand, she had been only one of a small few who had held out in resistance. The place was a prime piece of real estate, even if the project was a bust. Somebody, somewhere is going to be after it.

_This is not good._

I run both hands through my tangled mess of frizzy curls, red and unwieldy, as Alfie slinks in from the hallway, purring against my legs for some much desired affection as I stare at my reflection, green eyes and freckles ever prominent, even in the blur of the front door's glass panes. I have no idea what I'm doing, but it barely takes me any time at all to begin rationalizing it in my head.

_It needs to be now. Before anything starts rolling in the morning._

_I can come back easily enough._

_Seven minutes is nothing._

My confidence grows in my gut, as I move with purpose the foyer back to the cellar and take the rod iron key out of my pocket.

_She wants me to do this._

_What's life without a little adventure?  
_

I check back to see the cat, flopping himself on the ground, tail swaying in contentment and staring at me, before I start my abrupt descent back down the stairs, no spark of hesitance in sight.

"You be good, Alf, I mean it." He turns away, unable to care less. "I'll be back." I tell him.

I take a few deep breaths and begin the walk downward. Waiting. I close my eyes and hold tightly onto the bannister at my left, trying to think of anything else but the ridiculous motions my stomach is about to go through. I'm remembering the comfort of my bed in my apartment, it's heavenly microplush blankets, and a good night's sleep when I hit my mark and am off.

The transition feels smoother this time, though upon landing, I still manage to knock over the familiar bowl of tomatoes, while my legs feel like they've been turned to jelly. I freeze, suddenly frightened of the stranger's footsteps who I had all but forgotten about, coming in my direction almost immediately.

"Ex-excuse me! Excuse me! What are you doing in _my pantry_?!" Unknowingly, my hands find themselves held out in defense.

"I'm sorry," I spit out quickly. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to intrude."

"Intrude? How did you even get in here?"

_Oh God, he probably thinks I'm here to rob him._

I glance around me, looking for some sort of window or door I could work into a reasonable explanation, but come up short. There is literally nothing but shelves of food and drink, blubs of onions hanging from the door frame, and all sorts of greens coming down from the ceiling, most of which I had never seen before.

I could kick myself for not preparing any sort of story for this precise occasion, and struggle on how to proceed. With no clue on whether I should risk lying or blurt out the odd, preposterous truth, I stay silent while he waits, looking at me bewildered. I try to open my mouth and formulate a distraction, hoping the words come to me along the way, but I'm stuck. Completely inept. And additionally reminded of just how tiny the fellow was, not even up to my shoulders at my own five foot stature.

"I don't really know," is all I can muster.

"You don't know?" It takes a moment for me to try to speak again, but I'm interrupted as he takes a scrutinizingly long look at me. "Aren't you a bit far from home?" The words almost make me choke, and I begin to wonder if he was already aware of the passage and about Eloise as I can feel my pulse start to race. I know I need to ask, that perhaps I'm in a bit over my head here, but the words to do so are still failing me.

"What makes you say that?" He looks as if I pose a most ridiculous question, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his patch-worked robe.

"There are no Men in these parts. Only us hobbits."

"Hobbits?" He brings his hands back out and holds his arms in a gesture toward himself.

"Did you not realize you were in The Shire? Bag End?"

"No," my voice wavers. "No, I'm afraid I just sort of got dropped off. By Eloise. Eloise Hobbs. Do you know her?"

"I can't say that I do," he says with a pause, waiting for an explanation, I'm sure. When he receives none, the hobbit can longer hide his building fluster. "Now, now I've got to say, I love visitors as much as anyone, of course," he insists. "But at this hour? It's really quite late, and forgive me if I'm being rude, but I don't actually think I know you."

"Yes, sorry. That's ... understandable," I tell him, confused in his calmness. He says nothing, however, motions me to what I can only assume is the way out. I'm reluctant, knowing I have to cut the trip short, but as I take the briefest glance at the rest of his home around the corner, I'm overwhelmed in amazement. The coziness of the perfectly round architecture, roaring fireplace, detailed portraits on the wall, and numerous armchairs leaves me aghast. So much so, before I even realize it, I'm heading out the front door with a pleasant "good night!" ringing in my ears. Alone, in the dark, and officially locked out of my ticket back home.

* * *

**You guys certainly know how to make a girl feel special, my goodness! Thank you from the bottom of my heart for all the love!  
**


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